


strophic forms

by Skyepilot



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fate, Friends to Lovers, Male-Female Friendship, Patterns, Supportive Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 06:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9587018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/pseuds/Skyepilot
Summary: Inspired by Pablo Neruda poetry.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nausicaa_of_phaeacia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nausicaa_of_phaeacia/gifts).



“I want  
To do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”   
― Pablo Neruda, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair

 

##

  
She has imagined herself in a lot of places.

Here, she would've thought outside of Congress, protesting. Instead of staring up at the rotunda and asking herself if this is where she belongs.

It's not long before she's ushered further inside. Deeper inside, testifying.

Despite every change she's been through, and it feels like there have been many, she still feels like herself in a lot of ways.

This suit isn't really her. She nervously pushes at the burgundy fabric along the front, tugging at the bottom to set it straighter.

She'll never forget being Skye, part of the Rising Tide.

Her mother's daughter. Her father's joy. She hopes they would both be proud of her.

No, it's the same question that always remains.

Who is she becoming?

She thinks about it, turning beside her to see Mace, dressed in a suit.

And even though she's grateful that he's there, she can't help wishing he were someone else.

  
##

  
It hits them all hard. But it hits him hardest of all.

He feels responsible, like he always does. His forlorn face is worn all over the base, and she feels like cheering him up is somehow intrusive.

She's been here before. Carrying guilt. It's heavy and things are always so heavy these days. They just continue to surprise each other by carrying a heavier load.

The silent moments feel weighted, too. She just does her part to make sure he doesn't have to carry things that she can.

Tries to be a good friend and stand beside him, even though she didn't for six months.

Maybe she's even trying to make up for that.

It's hard, because she sees him so clearly. Even behind the wall he puts up, there's that always familiar feeling of what is. The part of him she remembers, that she even tried to compartmentalize, replace with other people.

The fear of losing him, and that part of him, forever. It's always there, lingering in the back of her mind.

Then the realization that it's not just him she's afraid of losing.

It's that he's been there with her. Like he was woven into her story.

The thing is, Coulson is becoming someone, too.

And there are times like this, where wonders if he sees himself that way, or if he gazes deeply into the past instead.

  
##

  
He stops for a moment and stands with her in the avenue.

The wind blowing through on this cool spring day, with the sun warming their backs.

This was all dead in the winter. Just jarring limbs and empty branches.

And now, it's all pink and rosy. Like the city is blushing.

She isn't sure if she remembers what that it feels like to blush. They're here to witness the Accords being repealed. It should be a celebration.

Only, she is tired. And there is still more work to do. She'll go on, because she always has. She's a survivor.

"It's a pattern," he says, leaning his head down to look at her. "Death. Rebirth."

Is he talking about them? The way things have been broken and then put back together again. Endlessly.

She doesn't want to think about this right now.

"The trees," he smiles at her. "They're beautiful. It's a nice day."

It catches in her chest, but then rises out of her, carried away like the cherry blossom petals along the breeze. She never thinks about stopping these days. About time, and the moments captured in between.

He wraps an arm around her, a gentle embrace that she could slide free of if she wants to. He's still here with her. For her.

She doesn't want to be free, suddenly. Woven into him, against, him, she fiercely hugs him back, pressing her face against the shoulder of his suit jacket.

The feel of his breath against her hair, mingled with the breeze that blows past.

She turns her face up to his, and feels the warm sunlight on it.

And remembers how it feels to blush.

  
##

  
She thinks about the trees. About the way the color exploded from them, radiant.

They're there in her mind along with little flickers of starburst.

Endings and beginnings and the way they are woven together, now in the most literal sense. The hairs of his legs tickle hers, making her squirm. She takes delight in it anyway.

"Patterns," she tells him, weaving her fingers between his. He looks at her, just like he has before. At different times.

She feels beautiful in all of them.

Drawing her hand towards his lips, he tenderly turns it and kisses her wrist. The blush still there on his cheeks from their lovemaking.

She's never thought about sex like that before. She might have even found it corny, but she feels so tender right now. In all of the best ways. New.

The heaviness she felt before isn't touching her now. It's almost dangerous, how invincible she feels in the moment.

Is this another time where she changes, and turns to look back at another version of herself she's left behind?

"No fate, but the fate we make," he tells her, squeezing her fingers.

"I like that," she smiles. "You're thinking about the future."

"It's from Terminator 2, but, yeah." He pulls her in closer to him, slips his face against her shoulder, his hand touching her hip almost possessively.

"Mostly about the present, though."

She runs her finger along the shell of his ear, and it's his turn to squirm, with a little laugh spilling out of him.

A moment that feels like a victory, after all.

 


End file.
